The Lady of Shalott in Hogwarts
by Hebbe484
Summary: The struggle of a lonesome portrait in Hogwarts as she battles through emtotions she once thought lost to her stirred by a young man.


_DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to the characters nor settings of the following story. All characters, settings, and background history belongs to the genius of J.K. Rowling and Lord Alfred Tennyson. _

Two enormous doors wrought with cast iron decorated the Entrance Hall to the castle, permeating an ancient feeling about its corridors. Just to the left of these doors hung a portrait. Perhaps not the most striking of all the portraits which plastered the stone walls, yet remarkable in itself. She sat confined in a cluttered, wooden room in a decoratively carved, backed chair behind a magnificent loom, balls of thread dancing about her golden clad feet. To her left hung a magnificent circular mirror reflecting the lost landscape of her home, long ago destroyed with the passage of years. Much of her inspiration for her weaving came from said mirror. Frequently, she would look into the mirror for a detail she had previously skimmed over, adding it to the story of her tapestry, connecting cotton, tales, and the very threads of time together in a single, fluid stroke. Such was how she spent her decades within the confines of her frame since her death.

From within her frame, she would look out occasionally upon the comings and goings of Hogwarts. The students continuously walked past her as they entered and exited the castle, possibly never realizing her existence their entire tenure at school. There were times when she would travel from her portrait to those which hung in the Grand Staircase; but these moments were few and fleeting, usually occurring only when mayhem spread through the castle. She had long since grown comfortable with her isolation like her painting depicted. Often, she would lose herself completely in her weaving, forgetting to look up for weeks on end from the detailed embroidery and complicated strokes of her loom. She had even grown accustomed to outbursts of laughter, cries, and explosions form the students, refusing to flinch and compromise her work. At least, such was true until she was interrupted from her repetitive existence in the beginning of a particularly chilly autumn's day.

"Your portrait has no title," a small, assertive voice said.

Upon hearing it so close to her frame, she jumped away from her weaving in shock, effectively tearing a thin shred of cloth form the tapestry. She looked up to find a gangly first year boy clad in the familiar onyx robes trimmed with crimson. She noted the auburn curls and crystalline eyes staring at her as she gave him her most deadly scowl.

"I'm terribly sorry," he immediately apologized upon seeing her now tattered tapestry, instinctively reaching out his hand in aid, though realizing the fruitlessness of the gesture.

When she did not respond, he repeated, "Your portrait has no title. I was merely curious as to why, which explains my interruption."

She could only nod in response, unwilling to trust her voice, doubting she any longer had the ability to talk having said nothing for centuries.

"Have you been long in the castle?" the first year inquired.

She nodded again.

"And I don't suppose you can tell me your name, could you?"

She shook her head.

The child looked crestfallen. "I thought not," he sighed, staring blankly at her ornate, golden frame. She took this time to impress his appearance in her mind, taking in every inch of him, cataloging and memorizing the hue of his skin, structure of his jaw, the angle of his shoulders, and the subtle bumps forming about his cheeks, the telltale sign of adolescence. Suddenly, his head jerked. The boy's eyes slowly made their way back to her painting. When they reached her eyes, he smiled an astonishingly charming smile: wide, toothy, and precious like ivory.

"Forgive me; I was lost in my train of thought. Nasty habit of mine, actually."

She nodded.

His eyes wandered to her tapestry. "Might I have a look?" he asked brightly, standing straighter at the prospect of seeing her work.

The portrait smiled as she searched the floor for the end of her weaving. Hidden beside her chair, she picked up the corners of the cloth and twisted them, revealing the sectioned pattern, each square or circle illustrating a scene of her life or of a story she could yet recall from her past. The young boy eyed it appreciatively, tilting his head in certain areas to read her inscriptions or craning his neck to indicate she should turn it more. Her smile widened. She had never before seen someone thoroughly interested in her weaving, let alone a young school boy.

"It's the story of King Arthur, is it not?" he asked.

She nodded affirmation.

"It is utterly divine, your tapestry. Might I come back in the future to see its progression?"

She positively beamed at him.

"I suppose that to mean yes," he chuckled. "I ought to be going. Elphias will no doubt berate me for my tardiness as it is. Then again, I have always known how to make an entrance." He winked, flashed his charming smile again, and turned to leave the hall, ultimately disappearing behind the doors leading to the Great Hall. She turned back to her loom, gazing at it. She pondered over her encounter with the young boy. His aura created a stir about her, forcing memories of her life once forgotten upon her. Though she had never seen a man before that fateful afternoon, she had heard tales of a magnificent wizard who roamed the realm, emanating raw magical power and sheer genius. Often times, she could sense a tendril of his aura rippling through the air as he rode pass her window. A name flashed quickly in her mind: Myrddin. The young lad had the same feeling about him, power and wisdom radiating from his being spreading to everyone within reach to notice. What struck the portrait as most bewitching were his eyes, and how they seemed to be the mediators for his aura. She could see it behind her mind's eye, deep cerulean swirls of unrefined magic seeping from his eyes like fog across the lake in the morning haze. Unconsciously, she began weaving, her tapestry beginning to form a tall, masculine figure standing among a mass of people, waves of starlight shinning from behind.

She watched as months passed, keeping an eye on the mysterious young boy. She had given up any hope of his returning to her even if only to inquire about her tapestry as he had said. Despite this, she watched him. He grew a few inches, his curls getting longer each passing week and his eyes getting brighter each day. Occasionally, she caught bits of gossip flying about the castle. She discovered a certain first year seemed to be inspiring awe in all his classmates and professors. Though the name escaped her, she had the sneaking feeling her young lad had become the topic of interest on everyone's tongues.

The ending of the school year was fast approaching. Four days before the holidays would begin and the castle would soon be barren of so much life, the portrait had her weaving interrupted once again.  
"I hope you did not fear I had forgotten my promise," the smooth voice wafted from across the hall in an effort not to startle her once again.

She whipped her head up to see the young boy, taller by at least two inches and, if possible, far more gangly. She beamed brightly at him before turning to gather her tapestry in her arms. She moved about her portrait laying the cloth flat for his eyes to gaze upon. Intently, he studied her handiwork, shifting his gaze from each individual scene to the next. His eyes flashed across one of her earlier scenes depicting the tall man of starlight.

"Who is he?" the lad inquired obviously intrigued. When he looked away from her work to her irritated face, he closed his eyes and smiled as he shook his head. "Forgive me. I was so involved in the story before me that your muteness slipped my mind." And he went back to admiring. Occasionally, he would asked if she could shift the cloth further down so he could see her newest creations. Her smile never faded throughout the entire critique, happy to finally receive any form of criticism or praise. Eventually, they made it to the last box, which depicted the flowing form of a watery woman either melting into or rising from the center of a misty pool.

"I think I rather favor this scene," the boy stated. "She looks rather like you this lady of the lake. Might I use her title as yours?"

She shot him a puzzled look.

"Perhaps a knock off of the title then," he pondered. "Perhaps the Lady of the Portrait?"

She shook her head.

"Hmm… Maybe the Lady of Looming?"

She wrinkled her nose.

"No," he chuckled, "not one of my best. Well, you cannot deny me this one: the Lady of Camelot?"

She pondered the title. Though not what she would prefer as a title, she had to agree that she could not deny him. She nodded in affirmation.

"Marvelous!" he shouted clapping his hands together. The bell in the Clock Tower rang heavenly from the rafters above, indicated the end of the lunch period.

"It appears I must leave. I doubt I will see you before the end of term. But this summer should provide excess time for new scenes! I can hardly wait to see them next autumn."

She nodded vigorously. No time for a proper farewell, she had to settle for a quick wave as he dashed out of the Entrance Hall and to his next class. This marked the start of her most favored ritual since being first hung in the halls of Hogwarts. Every autumn and every spring, she would prepare new scenes for the lad to view. After the first couple years, his visits became more prolonged starting with a look over of her tapestry with interest and end with a conversation. He always did a fantastic job of trying to involve her in the conversation, asking her questions she could respond. She had discovered much about the boy, both academically and personally. He was rising in prominence amongst the pupils while suffering through and overcoming unfortunate happenings back home. It did not take long for the Lady of Camelot to care for the now young man. After seven years, she came to see him as a surrogate nephew of sorts. At the end of his tenure, however, he came to her expressing how incredibly sorry he would be leaving her. She fought back tears as he made promises to come back for occasional visits, never truly believing his intentions. He left, hoodwinking her into a promise of a plethora of scenes for when he returned.

Years later, she was surprised to find that he had indeed returned. He was much older, almost unrecognizable save for the auburn swirls and penetrating eyes; even his very aura had altered. It was not drastic in any way, never actually changing in form, but it was indeed much strong than ever. His countenance changed drastically. He no longer had the gay, lighthearted, impulsive spirit about him, almost as if something had killed a small part of his soul whilst he was away. Though it didn't happen often, her breath hitched momentarily as realization hit her. She would forever remain trapped within this frame and tower, stagnant, unchanged, and trapped as she watched young lads and girls blossom and age with time unable to feel or experience with them. Soon, there would be time when she would no longer enjoy his company, once again forever resigned to her lonesome tower eternally weaving and looming. She quickly resolved to bask in this momentary bliss, forgetting the lingering terror as the now young man talked to her of his travels and experiences.

He remained at Hogwarts for many decades since, and they resumed their biyearly tradition easily. She was never confronted by another person, and often heard remarks from the staff about her young man's odd ritual of talking privately with a painting. Despite their sneers and pointings, he continued to admire her work and retell her stories.

Then one autumn perhaps after several years or decades since he returned, she could never keep track of time as it had no use to her, he came to her though not alone. She had heard him talking in the Entrance Hall and immediately finished a stroke of her weaving before looking up for him. He was accompanied by a tall, spiky looking woman immersed in deep emerald robes. As they drew closer, she could not resist the slight frown forming on her lips and the look of confusion and wariness spreading across her face, prominently through her brow. As the woman approached, her features softened to the portrait. She could not deny they were sharp and striking, but they were flattering.

"Milady," her young man bowed to her in his usually dramatic fashion. She bowed her head at him as a regal response, though her expression did not change.

"My dear, this portrait holds a special section within my heart. She knows of my many foibles yet always seems to enjoy my company and allow me to disrupt her magnificent looming twice a year to admire her work and catch her up on recent events," he addressed his companion.

"I must say, it is an honor and my privilege to be finally introduced to such an influential part of Hogwarts," the woman also bowed. "I'm afraid to say I never noticed your portrait while attending school. I must offer my sincerest apologies."

The portrait eyed her suspiciously. She recalled seeing this young woman no more less than two years ago walking through these corridors in black robes. Staring at her, she also realized she had seen this young woman many a time walking about with her young man discussing something with school books clutched tightly to her breasts. The portraits eyes looked the emerald woman up and down swiftly before nodding her head to her, her suspicious expression softening though not completely disappearing.

"It appears you have been accepted into the court, my dear," the young man whispered to his companion. "May I introduce you to the lovely Lady of Camelot."

The emerald women glanced at the young man. "I beg your pardon?"

"Considering she did not have a title to accompany her frame when I first discovered her, she and I agreed upon the Lady of Camelot as her title. It seemed only fitting as she weaves the stories of King Arthur." He pointed to her mirror behind her. "Not to mention she overlooks the castle like as a guardian of sorts."

The emerald woman began to scrutinize the portrait. She narrowed her eyes and bent forward slightly, peering at every little detail. This close inspection unversed the portrait and she shifted slightly under the intense gaze.

"I'm afraid your assessment is wrong, Headmaster," the emerald woman finally said straightening herself whilst folding her arms behind her.

Both the young man and the portrait gaped slightly at her.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked.

"Her title most certainly is not the Lady of Camelot," she shrugged. The young man still gawked at her, yet the portrait's face began to beam at her. "I cannot deny that it is Camelot which she looks upon in the mirror. And the fact that she weaves the stories of King Arthur would indeed point to such a fact. However, my dear, you were not raised nor schooled in Muggle teachings. From the fact that this portrait depicts a lady weaving in a tower during the time period of Arthur, her title is most definitely the Lady of Shalott."

The woman in the portrait jumped slightly and clapped enthusiastically. The young man glanced between the two women, and the emerald lady smiled in return to the portraits enthusiasm and the young man's confusion.

"Lord Alfred Tennyson, a renowned poet of Victorian England," she explained to the young man, "wrote a poem titled the Lady of Shalott. He described a maiden who sang and weaved for all in Shalott. Yet she was cursed. She knew not what the curse was, but when she looked out of her window upon the passing Lancelot, the mirror cracked, and the curse took fold. In the poem, it is said she came down from her tower and perished in a boat as it drifted to Camelot."

The Lady of Shalott smiled gloomily and nodded her head to the emerald woman. She extended her hand to the barrier of her canvas. She splayed her fingers flat against it as if the cloth were glass. The emerald woman extended her hand, placing it over the Lady's to mirror it. A silent understanding passed between them as their hands dropped. Tears formed in the portraits eyes as she looked from the emerald to woman to the young man and back again.

The Clock Tower rang out again, interrupting. The young man said, "I believe we have a staff meeting in five minutes my dear." Turning to the Lady, he said, "It appears we will have to unfortunately cut this visit short. Until next season, milady." He bowed again, the emerald woman taking his lead. The Lady of Shalott nodded in return then busied herself with her weaving once more.

As the young man and woman were walking away, however, she could hear him say softly, "May I ask what just transpired between you two?"

To which she heard the woman reply, "A mutual understanding. She no longer feels trapped behind her frame, and a feeling of hope, though very miniscule, has renewed itself. You know, she is quite smitten with you."

"I can't say I shouldn't be…" his voice became too soft for her hearing at that point. The Lady smiled to herself. She was known to someone. They had recognized her spirit, her hunger, her reclusiveness and had understood. Never in her time in this frame had she ever been known as who she was in her life. The emerald woman had brought back a part of her she hadn't known she lost.

Decades passed. The young man grew steadily until the Lady of Shalott could no longer recognize him as the gangly young lad you first interpreted her. His auburn curls dimed into a dull grey the a dazzling silver, he no longer bothered to shave and now had an abnormally long beard, his eyes remained crystalline, but they were soon obstructed by spectacles and he walked with a slight hunch to his shoulders. Despite age, he was spritely as ever, always managing to set aside two days of the year for her. The emerald woman accompanied him sometimes on these visits; though what she lacked in consistency, she made up in her enthusiasm in her conversations. She too had grown older, though not quite as ancient as the man. She became more regal, stiff, and pointy in appearance, and perhaps a little more portly about the bosom and midsection. The portrait remained hanging, waiting and longing for her seasonal visitors.

Then one spring term came and went without the man coming to visit her. She waited well into the summer holidays, still hoping to catch a glimpse of his familiar silver streak of hair yet it never came. She did noticed the emerald woman once in a while, thought she was usually rushing about the castle, barely casting a glance at anyone save the students and original staff members. A year went by in such a fashion. Then a full frontal battle erupted I the castle. The Lady of Shalott stood in horror as she witnessed countless students dashing to and fro sending curses and hexes flying; bodies of familiar and unfamiliar peoples soaring through the air; and entire walls of the castle shatter and collapse under the intense magical current. Yet her portrait and wall remained unscathed, perhaps protected by the wrought iron doors that concealed her. And, just as suddenly as the fighting began, it ceased and the sense of foreboding which plague the castle for years had been lifted. Students laughed and cheered, staff members embraced and partook in the rambunctious festivities of the young. Then reconstruction of the castle began as it slowly returned to its medieval state of immobility.

To the Lady of Shalott, the entire Battle of Hogwarts was a mere flash before her eyes. She could barely understand what had happened before it was over, already being rebuilt. The fall term after the battle, the Lady sat in her frame weaving once more. Her scenes had steadily changed over the years. She no longer replayed the same story of the fated King Arthur and his noble deeds. Instead, her scenes depicted everyday events happening within the walls of this castle. Faces of nameless students who had made an impression upon her weaved their way into her tapestry. On many occasion, she would reminisce about the young lad with auburn curls and unconsciously bring him back to her through the threads.

She knew there was but a week until the recent batch of students would once again reclaim this castle as home. It was during this week she noticed the emerald woman make her way to her portrait. The Lady gaped slightly at the change in the woman, physically and emotionally. A slouch overtook her shoulders as she leaned on a cane; not heavily, but the presence of it still affected her appearance. She looked like a defeated woman, yet her countenance displayed the exact opposite. This was by far the happiest and more tranquil she had ever witnessed the emerald woman.

As she approached, the emerald woman took one swift look over the portrait before nodding her head in a slight bow and saying, "Milady."

She bowed her head in response.

The emerald woman stepped closer. "It seems you have survived the battle without the slightest damage." The portrait nodded. "I cannot express how relieved I am," the woman sighed softly.

The Lady smiled.

"I apologize for not visiting sooner," the emerald woman continued in a louder voice. "The past year has been rather hectic, and I found that my services were needed practically everyday of term. As for the former Headmaster, I can make no excuse for him."

The Lady frowned terribly at the mention of her young man.

"Therefore," the emerald woman pushed, "I all but forced him to come and explain his actions himself. Abandoning you like that for over a year is completely incorrigible," she smiled at the portrait.

Just then, the Lady felt a shift in her tower. She stood to peer behind her loom. There, standing in all his glory, was her young man, though not in appearance. Her mouth gaped as realization hit her, and silent tears rolled down her cheeks as she sank back into her carved chair. The man came around from behind the loom and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Though meant to calm her, it brought forth a heavier trail of tears and sobs from the Lady of Shalott.

He looked out of the canvas to the emerald woman and said softly, "I think I can handle it from hear my dear."

She nodded. "Of course, Headmaster," she said before turning.

"Do be sure to pop by before and after term, however. I do feel a nice chat would lift both our spirits and ease the burden of such loneliness."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "I will make sure of it. I will also promise to join you when my time has come. I do wish to feel that fine tapestry run through my fingers someday," she cooed sweetly before making her way to the Grand Staircase.


End file.
